


Another Drink

by tonystarktrash



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Civil War (Marvel), Gen, Introspection, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, there are some minor spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6677554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonystarktrash/pseuds/tonystarktrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nights are always the hardest for Tony. </p><p>An introspective look into Tony Stark's mind sometime during Captain America Civil War, before things get messy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Drink

It was silent in the tower, previously Avengers Tower, before that Stark Tower -- now, just a tower – an ugly one at that, according to some. It had lost its identity just as its owner had. Tony Stark sat on a dark leather couch, looking out at the New York City skyline, a tumbler of whiskey held in a white-knuckle grip. He had lost count of how many times he had refilled his glass that night, the familiar buzz in his head had swelled to a crescendo. It was loud enough to blot everything out, except the guilt-ridden thoughts that he wished were drowned out the most. The thoughts pushed through the familiar cushion of drunkenness that was comforting until the morning, thoughts that then traveled through his bloodstream and punctured his heart -- maybe the shrapnel hadn't been removed after all. 

A bitter smile played across his face, a smile that held up under the scrutinizing flashes of cameras, though the man behind it was shattering. So much for being an engineer, a tinkerer – he couldn’t get himself out of situations when it really mattered. The smile faded as he knocked back the rest of the whiskey, rolling the empty glass between his hands. 

He missed Pepper -- Christ, he missed her. But it had been for the best, right? For the best. _The one thing he couldn't live without_ , and the stakes were getting higher, becoming increasingly dangerous with every passing second. So, they were "taking a break", and the tabloids had run with it.

"I can handle coming home to an empty house for a few months, but not the rest of my life, Pep." 

She had understood, he thought. She had cried, he had cried -- and they hadn't spoken properly since. Just the occasional phone call when he could get away from the never-ending meetings, briefings, dripping with guilt but happy to hear her voice. He couldn't risk her, though he knew she could take care of herself, knew that she wanted to stand by his side. But he'd gotten himself into this mess, and he wasn't going to let her get dragged into it to her own peril. Not again. She would understand, if she didn’t already. And if she didn’t forgive him afterwards, he would be alone, and perhaps that was what he deserved. He was responsible for countless deaths, had invoked suffering on people he would never meet. On people he would never be able to apologize to. But, God, he was trying.

Another drink.

It was hard work, working with the Avengers, with the government, doing constant PR while trying to satisfy both sides -- with a bit of a bias towards his friends. He wanted everyone to be happy, but he wanted the Avengers to be safe first and foremost. And he knew what would happen if they didn't sign the Accords -- and now Steve was gone, as if that **_helped_** with the discourse about accountability. Tony didn’t understand that, either. The Accords sounded like something straight out of Steve Rogers’ mouth, and Tony had truly believed in them. Superheroes were like nuclear weapons, and nuclear weapons needed to be guarded, using cautious deliberation prior to use. Even people with powers need rules, it would put minds at ease. But the Accords were at a standstill, they needed Captain America’s red-white-and-blue signature, or his red-white-and-blue ass in a jail cell. Tony had assured UN officials until he felt short of breath, that he _totally_ understood the urgency, the desperate need for the super-soldier to be under lock and key, or in sight at the very least. He had given Steve an ultimatum, 48 hours to finish up whatever business he had or else Tony would bring him in. Using force, if Steve pushed him to it. Steve hung up without another word, without a goodbye. Tony knew what that meant, that this would end in a fight. A no-holds-barred, bloody, _deadly_ brawl. 

Tony's grip around the glass tightened, whiskey sloshing over his hand and splattering at his socked feet.

What else was he supposed to do? Pretend like they weren't -- what had Bruce called them? -- a **time bomb**.

He stood from the couch, his reflection mirroring him in the window. Brown eyes narrowed as he was suddenly (but not surprisingly) awash in self-hatred. He was despicable. It was his fault, all his fault that this had happened. And he was paying for it, by having to fight his closest friends. His family. Tony’s eyes focused beyond the window, the distant light of the skyline was almost hypnotizing.

With a grunt, he wrenched open the door to the balcony, half empty drink still in his hand until he set it on the ground beside his feet. With his hands free, Tony grabbed the top rung of the balcony and hoisted himself up on unsteady legs, one hand gripping the glass awning above him while the other shook treacherously by his side.

He could jump, he realized, watching as cars slowly trickled up and down the endless blocks like insistent ants off to visit their queen. It would be over if he jumped. Well, over for Tony Stark. No more conferences, heated phone calls, debilitating migraines. No more drinking his way through the night to get through it. His pinky slipped from the awning, partially from the sweat that had coated his palm, and partially because jumping was sounding more and more appealing. There would be no armor to zoom after him and catch him before he hit the ground.

When had accountability become a dirty word? He had grown, he thought, changed his own _agenda_ as Steve had so aptly phrased. Matured. The Accords were easy, the balance of power was secure with the document signed and sealed in Geneva. The Accords meant security for the many as opposed to security and agency for the few. If they declined the Accords, what followed would be worse. Tony was just trying play the politics that were bound to come up, but twist them to his (and the Avengers’) advantage while he still had the option. But now he was the bad guy, now he was Mister Nanny State. Jumping would be easy.

His legs continued to tremble even as another finger slipped away, as he strengthened his resolve. Tony Stark had once been rash, but this was calculated. Everyone would be pleased, with him out of the way. 

 _Temporarily_ , at least. When that troublesome thought pierced through his steel resolve, he frowned. Jumping would ease pressure off of the remaining Avengers to sign the Accords, sure. Until they had time to grieve, and then it would be put back on the table, a stronger bill in the time it had taken for further rewrites out of the public eye. There would be no great mediator between the world and the Avengers with Tony gone. More people could die, deaths he could prevent by stepping backwards off of the railing and back on to solid ground.

And then there was Pepper. He hadn’t spoken to her in four days, almost five as his watch ticked away, carefree, on his wrist while his pulse raced beneath the leather strap. She would be the one to come home to an empty house, without warning, for life. 

“He sounded strong over the phone, told me everything was fine, that he was doing alright… I never knew that he was…” 

He couldn’t do that to her, no matter how tempting it was to never have to face the cameras again, the questions phrased as jeers and jabs. Tony gripped the awning with both hands to steady himself, until he felt that his right hand was sturdy enough to move with him as he attempted to grab the cool metal railing that his feet were practically curled over. While he bent down, a wind gust pushed him forward a fraction of an inch and Tony let out a shout, screwing up his eyes so he didn’t have to see the ground rushing towards him.

Tony’s eyes slowly cracked open to see that he was still standing on the railing, sweat soaked and shivering. Alive, though terrified, still alive. Mumbling a frantic stream of curses to himself, his feet touched the concrete floor of the balcony, and he ran his shaky hands through his hair in an attempt to calm down.

All he needed was the glass of whiskey, and he would be just fine. Stark men are made of iron, after all. Iron and whiskey, maybe, and he laughed. It was a cheap, hollow sound. But it was better than the scream that had left him when he thought he was accidentally going to kill himself. Death by misadventure, his death certificate would proclaim, only missing a cheeky smiley drawn beside it. The tabloids would make up for that.

The balcony door was slammed shut behind him as he moved back into the lounge area, where the open bar was. The television too, a welcome distraction that he turned on as he decided to top up his drink. CNN brightened the room, casting the empty space in red and white light. Some talking heads were blabbering about the Accords. Tony sat down on the couch with a worn pad of paper resting on his leg and a pen in his free hand. He’d get through the night, he always did.

All he needed was another drink. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
